


While Bridges Still Burn

by Deducingsocks



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: Drug Use, M/M, attempted sucidie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-15
Updated: 2011-02-19
Packaged: 2017-10-15 16:40:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 14,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/162791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deducingsocks/pseuds/Deducingsocks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Dearest Watson, I regret to inform you that all is not well with in my mind. I am in constant torment -"</p><p>Watson leaves Holmes due to his obsessive drug use but shortly returns to help after the detectives attempted suicide. So unfolds a tale of broken hearts, friendship and survival.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**“In the darkest of moments, I hear your sweet voice and it's like a choir of angels in my head. Three months and one winter since you've been gone and, in truth, I can't breathe without you anymore.”**

Ink blotched the paper. Holmes cursed. Through his utter hopelessness, he could barely see nor write. 

“Where did you go, old friend?” he whispered to no one. 

He took a new quill, the other having been thrown to the floor, and dipped it into the ink pot. He began to write, carefully choosing each word, slowly saying it to himself and them to Gladstone.

 _Gladstone._

Every time he looked at the dog, his heart sank. He had considered putting him out and letting him find someone else, but each time he made to do so, he couldn't. He was, and will always be, Watson's dog. He looked over to the mutt, to find it laying over the arm of his chair, watching him with those big, sad eyes. It was as if he knew Sherlock Holmes' game. 

“Which sounds more appropriate: 'Wretchedness' or 'torment'?” He asked the dog. It gave a huff but no response. As expected. 

The man sighed and returned to his writing.

 **“Dearest Watson, I regret to inform you that all is not well with in my mind. I am in constant torment -”  
**  
He ceased and tapped his fingers on the wood. In his other hand, a cold whiskey. 

 _Tap, tap,tap._

More whiskey was poured, more and more until nothing was left. 

 _Narcotics. I need the narcotics._

His mind was racing almost as fast as his heart. He took the drug from its home beneath his bed and desperately began to cook it. Holmes' body shook as he waited for the drug, he longed to pull at his hair or scratch his skin, anything to numb the sensation of hopelessness. How much he had begun to prepare, he didn't know nor did he ultimately care. He had no mind for ounces tonight. 

Gladstone continued to watch him from the armchair with those sad puppy eyes. Damn those eyes. Holmes could have sworn that he had heard the dog speak, he would swear on the bible it's self that the animal had begged him to reconsider. 

Nevertheless, the task was to be done. The heroin was cooked and he was already filling it into a syringe. He tied the tourniquet around his bicep, pinched the skin around the crook of his elbow and waited for the vein to rise. 

 _'Mainline, Holmes, remember to mainline, old boy.'_

The detective raised his head and gave the dog an infuriated look. Had the dog really spoken again? Shaking it off as another moment of near insanity, Holmes pushed the tip of the needle into the flesh. 

A great sense of relief washed over him, the sting passed, tears ran down his cheeks and he looked to the ceiling. Little dots appeared before his eyes and Watson's voice in his head. 

The syringe dropped, Holmes laid back. The hallucinations, caused by the long-term psychosis, played out in his head and he wept at their kindness. His breathing slowed and became shallow, his chest rising and falling less frequently. 

And, within the hour, the torment was nothing but a black shadow.


	2. 2

  
“Watson!?” Sherlock stormed through their flat, a single piece of paper in his hands, “ Watson!? Where in God's name are you!”

He took the stairs two at a time, stumbling and falling in his 'morning after' haze. He heard the dog barking in his chambers and quickly burnt through the door. But, there was only Gladstone. There was no Watson.

As the detective strode around the room, he realized all the doctor’s things were gone. He took a walk to Watson's office and discovered missing books and papers; all the ink pots and quills were still present.

He sat upon the floor and read the page once again.

 **I am leaving your ill presence. Holmes, you were once a man; now you are nothing but a drunken, drug infested haze. I love you but you are hurting me too much.**

 **I am sorry, Sherlock.**

 **John D. Watson.**

Holmes' mouth felt dry, his heart gave an uncomfortable thump. His stomach dropped. In all his experience of human emotions, heartbreak had never been one he had experienced; until now. Not even Irene Adler had affected him quite like this.

The clicking of Gladstone’s claws along the floor lasted for only a moment, and then the canine was laying with his head in Holmes’ lap. He whined and looked up at the man with sad, brown eyes. Holmes scratched behind the dog’s ears.

He found that his hands began to shake and his entire body felt alien. He lifted his finger tips to his cheeks to confirm that, yes, he really was weeping.

“Watson.” He whispered to the room around him, “I – I can still smell you, mother hen.” 

**

“I just found him like this; the blasted man has been nothing but a handful since -”

“Mrs Hudson, I don't need to apologize any more for this surely? I had to leave, you know I did.” 

“Yes well, you're back now, doctor.” 

“W-watson?” Sherlock Holmes coughed, his eyes were still shut but he knew that voice and smell anywhere. 

There was shuffling and then his left arm was being lifted and pinched for a pulse. Every bone in his body ached, his blood felt cold in his veins and a strange sense of utter despair filled him. He was still alive. His heart, the one part of him that had always rebelled when he had tried to convince himself Watson meant nothing, was smiling and begging him to follow suit. But his head was having none of it. He simply wanted his death back. How dare that man steal his death?

“Holmes? Holmes can you hear me?” Watson pulled at his eyelid and inspected the pupil as it sunk away in fear of the light. 

“Watson.” The detective sighed. 

“You are lucky you are not in a hospital, Holmes. They would surely have put you in the asylum.” the doctor shot harshly, “You are to stay here, in this bed, for at least a week. Only light beverages, such as tea. You will find that, when you finally rise from what could have been your grave, you will have no narcotics or alcohol of any description.” 

Holmes tried to find the words to protest or even the feelings to portray, but he had none. He simply felt numb. 

“Mrs Hudson, bring us up some tea. I wish to speak with him alone for a while.” 

“And your bags, doctor?” 

“Have them put into my old rooms.” 

She nodded and was off down the stairs. Gladstone was lay beside Holmes, his chin upon the man's shoulder and his warm breath on his neck.

“That dog has really taken to you. Then again, it never did know good character.”

Holmes winced, “Now, old boy, this is no time for snide remarks -”

“Oh, no? This is time for sympathy for Sherlock, is it? You overdosed on opium while drunk, as usual. This is no oddity, Holmes. If Mrs Hudson hadn't been so convinced that this was a suicide attempt, I wouldn't be here.”

“Wat-”

“You are much too fond of yourself to even attempt suicide. This was a cry for my attention. You knew I would come running. Well, congratulations Mr Holmes, once again you have reeled me in.” Watson spat, “You are playing my feelings against me just so you have someone to hurt.”

“I didn't. Old boy, listen -”

“I have listened. I have listened and listened until I could no longer stand it anymore. I have held back your hair as you vomited, I have bathed you when you were too drunk or high to stand; I have loved you while you never loved me back.” 

 _Loved?_

“Watson, I have always loved you. I continue to love you.”

“Then why do this? Why bring me back to this god forsaken city? If you loved me Sherlock Holmes, you would have gladly let me go.”

“But, you see, it is because I loved you that I grieved.” 

Mrs Hudson knocked gently on the door before entering wearing one of her comforting smiles. She even gave one to Holmes. Watson stood.

“Thank you, Mrs Hudson. May I have a moment of your time?” He shot a look to the bedridden man, “Drink and do not leave that bed. Understand?”

Holmes nodded.

The doctor and landlady left the room, the door closing behind them, and retreated to Watson's reclaimed study.

“Mrs Hudson, may I be blunt?”

“Why yes, please go ahead.”

“What made you think this was a suicide attempt?”

She hesitated before reaching into the pocket of her apron. She withdrew a sheet of paper blotched with ink in several places. In the corner was number two. 

“There were others on his desk, mostly incomplete. All of the same topic but none so heartbreaking and obvious as this.”

The man began to read. 

 **My dearest  Watson. John.**

 **I can no longer bare this. I am alone in my torment with only a dog for company. I know I never made things easy, I know I never listened or loved you how you wanted to be loved. But I did love you. I don't now. I still do. I cannot lie to you, not like this.  
Bluntly, I am dead. I feel nothing within me anymore. There is no flare, no spark. No point for anything. I decided against hanging or the blade  I will leave this world in same way that I ever lived in it; A drunken fool chasing a dragon for the last time.**

 **Watson  John. I love you. I always will no matter where I am.**

 **Yours,   Love, Sherlock Holmes.**

Despite himself, Watson felt tears in his eyes. 

“This was not an attempted to get you here, Doctor. Holmes hasn't been right since you left.”

“W-was he ever right?”

“He was less so than usual. He barely slept, he barely ate. His room was only abandoned at night and even then he came home either drunk or beaten; sometimes both. More than once, I have carried him to his bed.”

“Cases?”

“Three. All of which he got in a matter of days. Easy, I imagine, when you are forgetting to sleep, bathe and eat, and do nothing but concentrate fully on the matter at hand.”

Watson continued to read the letter once more, his heart sinking further with each word. He heard Mrs Hudson leave to check on the man and he felt himself worry. He felt guilt. 

In that room, that stinking, shabby room lay a broken man. A man once so obscure, so renounced in his field that he was called upon from every angle. A man he had lain with and argued with. The very man he had ran away from. The man he had vowed never to hear head nor tail of again. But, this man still had a very vital part of him; his love.


	3. 3

In spite of the evidence at hand, Watson remained somewhat sceptical. He lay awake that night pondering the facts, weighing up the Sherlock he once knew so well and the Sherlock he had briefly seen now. Nothing seemed to have changed, at least, nothing off hand. No matter how he begged, his mind would not give up and so, it was at 4am, that he grew tired of waiting. His shock of the initial letter had worn off and so he had decided to apprehend the others that Mrs Hudson had mentioned. 

Watson crept into Holmes' chamber. The embers of the fire sent an eerie glow against the walls; the carpet was covered in filthy coal stains. Gladstone lay asleep at the foot of the silhouette that could only have been Holmes cocooned in his quilt. For a moment, Watson felt a pang of regret in his stomach but it was only for a moment. He rooted around the writing desk, picking up every piece of paper he could find and filling them into the pockets of his dressing gown. Before his departure, he took one more wistful look at the man upon the bed and hoped to God that he was right. 

Holmes knew perfectly well that Watson had searched through his papers and yet he had neither the energy nor mind to stop him. All his fight was gone, it had left a long time ago, and he no longer cared what was done with him; he no longer cared about anything. When Gladstone snorted in his ear, he made no movement. It was a scary feeling. The constant ache had subsided to a dull throb and yet all his senses were increased tenfold. To the perceptive Sherlock Holmes even logic was lost. 

And now, with nothing to numb his suffering mind, it was all he could do just to breathe. 

**

“I have this prevailing feeling of dysania, Watson. Not just now, but always.” Holmes whispered, wistfully, “What is the sense in facing another day without anything to numb my fall?” 

It was early the next morning, Watson had brought Holmes his breakfast (Mrs Hudson insisted that he stop ignoring Holmes and actually pay a social visit rather than a medical one) and was now presuming to try and talk to the man. He had spent the majority of his morning reading and re-reading the detective's 'suicide' papers and, in truth, felt as if he needed a strong drink. 

 **'Dear John,**

 **I love you. But you will never read this, so, the purpose of this letter is defeated. Along with the other 100 or so.**

 **A very sappy Sherlock Holmes.'**

They all followed the same course. All addressed to him (apart from one which was more or less addressed to himself) and all seemingly heartbreaking. 

“Surely you, the great Sherlock Holmes, can deduce a reason to get up from your bed. Even if it is not easy, old cock, it is still worthwhile.” Watson was not trained in psychology nor the inner workings of the mind, but it was mandatory, as a doctor, to have some comforting skills. However, he knew that to a suicidal man words meant little. 

He sat on the end of the bed, next to Holmes, and watched. The way he held himself had lost all confidence that it once had; the look in his eyes was weary. He started at the tops of his bare feet, his arms hung between his legs and his hands bunched together in a fist. It was so defeated; so unlike him. 

“My God, man, “ Watson sighed, “Where has your life gone? All that spark I once admired, it is nowhere to be seen.”

Holmes bowed his head into his waiting hands and ran his fingers through his curls. 

“I have no spark any more, Watson. It left when you did.” 

Watson fell silent. Was he to feel guilty or angry? Was that a judgement or a matter of misunderstanding? 

“I - I left because what you were doing to yourself was hurting me too.” Watson spat, “Or was I irrelevant?” 

“You hurt me by leaving. I love you. How can you simply throw love away? Disregard it for a second grade emotion?”  

“I did love you, Holmes. I loved you until it broke my heart. But, you - you were more interested in your self destruction than you were me. I was often left wondering if it was you or your drug induced high.” 

“You _loved_  me? It's no longer the case at present?” 

“No, Holmes, no. You hurt me too much.”

“You can't simply stop loving someone - I should know, I've tried and of all people to fail; I have.”

It was true, Watson thought, of all people, Sherlock Holmes could not control his own desires. What hope that left for anyone else, he did not know. At one point in his friendship with Sherlock, he would have placed the man as sociopathic, unable to even feel a simple emotion such as glee. Even during their time as a couple, Holmes was blunt and sometimes clueless about what he felt. Of course, he told Watson 'I love you' but it was rarely passionate unless he was drunk or high on opium.   
Maybe it was part of the reason he left? Maybe he wanted something more and, Sherlock not being the type to provide it, he simply ran? 

“Never the less, Holmes, even if I do still love you, I can never come back to you.” 

“Then why are you here? I don't need your  _friendship_ ; it's simply too cruel.” 

“I'm here because you're an idiot. I had my doubts about your 'suicide attempt' and after reading your letters I still doubt. It could simply have been a ploy to get me here, an attempt used to disguise a cry for help.” 

“Think what you will.”

“If I were to pass you a knife-” 

“I'd use it. Well.” 

Watson growled in frustration. For several moments, he could think of nothing to answer, what does one say to a statement like that? Finally, he whispered the only thing he could. 

“Please, don't.” 

Holmes lay back upon the bed and brought the dog closer to him; Gladstone seemed to be somewhat of a safety blanket.

“You've taken everything else from me -”

“Drugs, Holmes! Drugs will most certainly turn you into just another mad man on the streets, begging for money. I don't want to see that befall you.” 

The man, upon further inspection, was shaking, his hands couldn't stay still. 

“I'm aching, Watson.” He snapped, “I - I need them back. Please? As a friend  - a lover - I'm asking you with all my heart.” When he gave Watson those big doe eyes, the doctor's heart melted. But he stood firm to his guns and simply shook his head, “Have it your way.”

The detective turned onto his side, so that his back was to Watson, and curled himself into a ball. Watson remained in his chair, watching. The doctor knew that the withdrawals would be much easier with someone there to ease his pain and, maybe then, Holmes would finally see him as his friend again. 

Even if he didn't; Watson could live with that.


	4. 4

_Heat. Sweat. Anticipation. The sight of Watson walking slowly towards him, regarding his position on the bed. He was naked, his legs apart, his hand gently stroking his erection. He bit his lip. Watson began to undress, slowly removing his garments; so painfully slow._

 _And then Watson was on top of him, one hand holding his jaw firmly and his lips capturing his own. He bit at the detectives bottom lip, he forced his tongue into his mouth, he whispered curses when he broke for air. The doctor’s other hand was dragging nails down Holmes’ back. The man arched in pleasure, his cock so hard it was almost unbearable._

 _Watson kissed along his jaw line, licked and nipped at the lobe of his ears, sucked at the skin on his neck. He smoothed his hands over the muscles on Holmes' arms and then down over his stomach._

 _“J-John.” Holmes moaned._

 _Watson took both their erections in his hand and began stroking them and rubbing them against each other. He too moaned, his breath coming in short and shallow bursts. They were both so hard, so wet with pre-cum and sweat._

 _“G-good Lord!” Holmes gripped Watson's waist and brought him closer ,”S-so good.”_

 _“Quiet, Sherlock. No talking.”_

 _The doctor slowed his movements; he licked the skin around Holmes' nipples before biting down. Holmes yelled out and bucked up into him._

 _“Christ! John, John just fuck me!”_

 _Watson pushed him down on to the bed; he released their cocks and held Holmes down. He watched every movement the detective made as he slowly licked the pre-cum from his fingers. Holmes shuddered, his cock twitched against his partners. Watson ghosted his fingers along Holmes' stomach, down along his groin and then around over his buttocks. He began to prepare Holmes._

 _When the first finger was slid into his tight hole, Holmes almost screamed. By the time the second entered, Watson was kissing him, distracting him with his tongue. He could feel them stretching him, moving much too slowly but hitting every spot; except one._

 _  
“D-deeper.” Holmes moaned._

 _“Quiet!” Watson bit his shoulder, making him scream out._

 _And, then, pleasure. Holmes' whole body shuddered, blood rushed to his cock. He was almost there, he could feel it in his belly. The small details, like the shuffling Watson made as he moved, escaped him. Only the moaning and the breathing and the feel of Watson's cock were all he could register. And then there was thrusting, hard and then slow. Watson crying out, the bed shaking, his hands tangled in sheets. He could feel it rising, he was almost ---  
_  
**

 _Panting._

Holmes was tangled within his bed sheets and his night shirt uncomfortably wet. He groaned, realising the truth of the situation. His cock was achingly hard, his belly and sheets covered in pre cum. As if it weren't embarrassing enough to be suffering withdrawal in front of the man.

“Lord.” he lay back onto the mattress and brought his arm up to cover his eyes.

These dreams of he and Watson's sexual experiences haunted him for the months after he left. He always found himself waking up hard or his sheets wet. Each time he hated it. It only was there to remind him of what he had lost.

However, presently, everything was aching; not just his cock. He was shaking, his muscles burned beneath his skin and the cramps in his stomach were almost unbearable. Holmes was surprised he even had the ability to get aroused. The depression he had experienced before his overdose had been nothing to what he felt now. It was heavy, so heavy he could barely breathe at times, it hurt to do  _anything_  and everything felt so alien to him. The mere thought of reality was overwhelming.

It was fast and slow and everything in-between.

Sighing, and admitting defeat, he wrapped a hand around his erection.

“Breakfa-” Watson stood motionless in the door way.

Holmes yelped and quickly released himself. He pulled the quilt up to his chin and stared at the man, blushing a deep red.

“I - um - it wasn't - er.”

The doctor placed the tray of breakfast on one of the small tables. He sat down upon his chair.

“I'm glad I didn't send Mrs Hudson up.”

Holmes hid his head beneath the covers.

“Oh lord, I really can't apologize enough. I should have lock-”

“It's quite natural, old boy. It is your home after all; no harm done.”

Holmes was more hurt than embarrassed. It wasn't the first time he had been caught masturbating by Watson, but it was certainly the first time he received such little reaction. It was needless to say his erection had been scared away.

“Still - my house or not - It's  _slightly_  embarrassing.”

“It's not the first time I've seen you in the position. However, I am surprised you were able to achieve an erection in your current state. Must have been a good dream.” Watson's voice was of even tone, no hint of disgust or desire, “I brought you up breakfast. You haven't eaten in days.”

“I'm not hungry.” Holmes replied from beneath the covers, “You eat it.”

“You are much too thin. And weak.”

“ _You're_  weak.”

“Holmes, don't be childish. Just do as you are told and eat.”

“I feel ill.”

“That's the withdrawal. What else?”

Holmes sighed and crawled to the bottom of the bed. He stuck his head from beneath the quilt. Watson smiled at him and somewhere, deep within him, Holmes got butterflies.

“Do you feel anything else, old boy? Pain, anxiety, paranoia?”

His butterflies decomposed. The man only wanted to apply his medical opinion, it wasn't about caring, it wasn't about helping; he just wanted to show Holmes, again, what he had done to himself.

“I want you out.” the detective growled.

“Mood swings.”

“What?”

“It's evident. One moment, you are hiding from me, then you are smiling at me and now you are putting me out. So many emotions in less than five minutes.”

“Fuck off.”

“Holmes-”

“No, just get out. I haven't done this. You have.”

“By leaving? We have talked about this. It was for the best. I did not hold the needle to your arm and force you to inject.”

“No, your abandonment did!”

 It was then that Watson noticed that the man was crying. The great Sherlock Holmes was weeping  _real_  tears. He was speechless and confused. Does he comfort him, link an arm around his shoulders and tell him it will all be okay, or does he leave him and reduce his chances of hurting him further.

“S-sherlock.” The doctor decided upon the former and knelt by the bed, “I'm here now, isn't that at least something to be happy for? I have no notion of leaving until you are well -”

“B-but you will leave. I know it. And I can't bare it. I lost you once, I went through that once; I just can't do it again.”

“You're a strong man -”

“I'm a liar. I have never been strong;I have just hidden it well. I need you; when you felt the same way, I thought I had finally found something. There was hope and I had no reason to want to die. But, you left and I have no hope. And, we all know, a man without hope is a man without life.”

Watson placed his hand on Holmes' only for it to be shoved away. Holmes' glared at him, eyes rimmed red and tears still coursing down his cheeks. Watson could not help but think how handsome the man was, how his tears brought out the blue in his eyes, how the scars on his lips suited him; how vulnerable he looked. Somehow, his breakdown was so beautiful.

There was a stirring in his chest, as if something was fighting its way to the surface. But, as quickly as it had come, it left.

“Holmes - Sherlock, you have to find a way around this. Many others have; why not you?”

“Need I keep explaining how you were and always will be mine? My beginning and end. I was heartless before, I had never had love for anyone, not even my own brother, and then - then you made me feel things I never thought I could. I had always thought I was somewhat asexual, I had never had sex or anything like it before you. How do I handle this now you,“ he sighed, “despise me. “

“I don't despise you. I'm worried about you;  _hugely_  worried. This is new to me, seeing you like this is unnerving. Despite what has happened you are still one of my closest friends; in fact, my only close friend.”

Holmes bit his lip. It looked as if he may cry again, but he didn't. He just watched the doctor with his big, doe eyes. Watson gently patted his shoulder.

“I'm glad you are talking to me. Even if it is rather terrifying, I still welcome it.” he got to his feet and retreated back to his chair, “Now, please eat.”

Still, Holmes remained on the bed, curled beneath the blanket like a stubborn child.

“No.”

Watson sighed. He lifted a cup of tea and toast and waved it in the direction of the detective mockingly.

“Fine! More for me.”


	5. 5

“The worst has passed.”

Holmes curled into a tight ball, arm linked around his stomach and back to his 'once-upon-a-time' partner. He clenched his teeth and bit back profanity. His skin burned, the muscles beneath clenching and quivering, his entire body begging him for opium.

Watson gently touched his shoulder and pain exploded through him.

“It's psychosomatic, old cock. The pain, from my touch, doesn't exist.”

“ T-that means little. I can still feel it.”

“Today and it will be over.”

The detective didn't reply, he couldn't. He was shivering now, cold sweat all over his body, clinging the shirt to his chest and cooling the fire beneath his skin. It was ever changing, fast and heavy agony. Watson had been there when it started at noon and he would be there until it was over. Not once had the doctor stopped comforting him.

“You must have really over done yourself on this, Holmes. The withdrawal symptoms I have seen before have never been so bad or lasted so long.”

“I'm a special man, Watson.”

“That you are.”

Holmes screamed out as a cramp shot through his abdomen. Watson, throwing all logic to the wind, gently lifted him and cradled Holmes' head against his chest. Despite all principle, the detective clung onto the doctor's waist. He shivered against his body, cried into his chest and outwardly begged the man to make this hell cease.

Watson gritted his teeth. His heart was breaking with each moan of pain from the man in his arms and he would do anything to take it away from him. But, all the same, he knew Holmes deserved it; it was his doing after all.

“W-watson -” Holmes brought a hand to his mouth, “I- I think I might be sick.”

“Christ.” Watson bounded from the bed and reached for the coal bucket. He emptied the contents onto the rug and thrust the bucket into Holmes arms.

He retched. Thick bile spilled from his mouth, his entire body shook with agony. There was nothing but water in his stomach and, so, it felt as if the very tissues were being torn. He doubled over and hiccupped. Watson took the bucket from him and laid it beside the bed.

“Lay back, Holmes. I'm here.”

“P-please. Stay.” He curled into a ball, his head on Watson's chest and his legs tangled with his, “Stay this time. I have never felt such agony. I feel as if my entire body is being eaten from the inside.”

Watson petted at the detective's hair; it was sticking to his forehead, slick with sweat.

“I need you, “ Holmes continued, “I need you more than I have ever needed you. Please t-try to love me again. I will give you anything. The moon, the stars, peace, quiet; I'll give you my full attention and my whole heart.”

Another fit of nausea settled over the detective and he reached for the bucket. Another few moments were spent with his head dipped, his eyes squeezed shut and tears mixing with the vomit. Watson rubbed at his back.

“You are doing well, Holmes - “

“I wouldn't being doing this if you hadn't  _saved_  me. I would be dead, stiff and gleeful and being eaten by maggots. And, God be damned, I hate you for saving me. You and that wretched housekeeper - “

“Land lady.”

“Damn what she is!” Holmes was sobbing, he was curled against a pillow, bucket forgotten about and on the floor next to Watson's feet, “She could be Jesus Christ Emanuel for all I care; but to me she is a devil.”

Watson leant over the man and kissed him gently on the cheek. When he didn't receive a reaction, good or bad, he awkwardly wrapped his arms around him. Holmes struggled, he tried to escape the hug, tried to deny the doctor the pleasure of comforting him. But he wasn't strong enough. Another agonizing cramp cut through his stomach and he cried out.

“J-John.” he turned to face the man and curled into his chest. There he sobbed and begged forgiveness.

Watson stroked at his hair again, the other arm holding him securely to his body. The detective’s words swam in his head. The notion that Holmes might try to take his life again hurt more than anything the man could say. Yes, the doctor had finally given into the fact that Holmes had, indeed, tried to kill himself in a genuine sense. It was the way the man acted, the emptiness and pain behind his eyes. The once lively hazel was nothing but a dull swamp.

 _Please try to love me again._

“I will try, Holmes.” Watson whispered to the walls. The detective lay asleep, finally, entangled with him. It was safe to talk out loud and to promise things he really shouldn't, “I'll try to love you again.”


	6. 6

  
It had been well over a week since Watson last had dreamt of Holmes. Of his fine physique, the way his muscles moved during their most intimate moments. As much as he tried, no matter what women he courted, Holmes was still his last thought at night. 

He was ashamed to admit that he awoke most mornings with an erection for the man. Now that he was back in the house, in such close proximity, the dreams hadn't ceased; they had become more frequent. The sight of Sherlock in such a vulnerable position, quite frankly, made him want the detective more than ever. 

He couldn't deny it, no matter how he wanted to, but he wanted Holmes. He couldn't tell if it were love or just lust, but he ached for Holmes, every bone in his body cried out for him. 

Most nights, if not every night since he had held Holmes in his arms, Watson's dreams were more intense, a mixture of their pleasure; some mere memories and some concoctions of his own mind. 

 _Holmes took him from behind, his stomach against the arm of the couch. Moaning and gasping, from both him and Holmes. Especially Holmes. That long, slow moan that made him hard instantly, the lack of control in his vocal cords. He had ejaculated all over the material on the couch and, almost immediately after, Holmes growled in his throat and dug his nails into Watson's thighs as he reached climax._

 _After the passion there came the peace. They lay in each other’s arms, upon the floor, by the fire, and just basked in each other’s company. Holmes had whispered in his ear, for the first time, that he loved him and Watson's heart did some sort of dance in his chest. They slept like that, side by side, on the tiger skin rug._

It was a memory, and a beautiful one.

After he awoke from the dream, he was so hard it hurt. He could hear Holmes moving and wrecking in his own rooms and thinking of the man only made him worse. Shamefully, he wrapped a hand around his erection and began to slowly stroke himself. The images of Holmes, vulnerable and wanting, and the sounds he made as he spent. Holmes muscles, his voice, his tears, his smell; he wanted it all. His mind moved to fast, the heat built up deep in his belly until he knew he was close. He clapped a hand over his mouth to muffle his cries and thought of only Holmes' smile as he came. 

**

Since his recovery from the aliment, brought on by the drugs, Holmes spent his time in his rooms or wandering the halls. Mrs Hudson and Watson often heard him at night in the scullery making tea or looking for morsels of food. Within the two weeks, he had often been asked to come out for a walk or a bit of fresh air, but each time he refused; he was content, in his room with his experiments and loyal dog. 

However, he ignored any visitors but Watson or the landlady. When he was asked to assist a case, mediocre that it was, he told them he was too busy with other things. The men at Scotland Yard didn't press. 

“He needs a case.” Watson pinched at the bridge of his nose and gave the landlady a pained look, “Why is he doing this?”

“Why does Mr Holmes do anything?” She answered.

“Why indeed.” 

There was a crash and clatter upstairs. Watson rose from his seat and, cursing, strode to Holmes’ rooms. The door was not locked so he saw no reason to announce his entrance. The drapes were pulled shut, the fire lit and one of the tables was over turned; the writing desk to be exact. Holmes was sitting cross-legged beneath his dining table, his back to Watson and Gladstone in his lap. 

Watson watched him for a moment. He could hear short shallow breaths and he could see the man's shoulders shaking; Holmes was weeping. Feeling his heart break once again, Watson knelt behind him and took him into his arms. 

“Did you knock over the writing desk?” He asked quietly.

Holmes sniffed and lay back against him.

“Yes. The blasted thing frustrates me.” 

“Why?”

He hesitated. 

“I honestly have no idea. I just needed to destroy something beautiful.” 

“Like your writing desk?”

“Precisely.” 

They sat in silence, Holmes' head against Watson's shoulder. The doctor stroked the older man's hair, he took in his scent, studied his movements and prayed to God he knew what to say next. Holmes was still weeping, but he tried to hide it. He bit at his lip and fiddled with the threads on his ratty old dressing gown, but despite his efforts, Watson knew. 

“Why are you crying?”

“I- I do not know, Watson.”

“Yes, you do. I care. Tell me.” 

That was when the sobs caught in Holmes' throat. He pulled himself to Watson's chest and wept uncontrollably. His whole body shook. Watson rubbed rings into his back and whispered small words of comfort into his ear. 

“I-I do not want to live. Even with you here, nothing is right. I - I ruin every god forsaken thing I touch. Nanny was right, I am full of poison.” 

“Holmes', I feared from the beginning that this depression would persist. And, I regret to say that all we can do is wait it out.”

“Let me die.”

“I will not let you die, Holmes! I care about you! I am trying, I truly am, but even if I do not love you yet I do honestly, really care! Mrs Hudson cares, Gladstone cares. Mycroft and your dear old mother and father care, Holmes. Do not let a little thing like depression bring down the greatest detective the world has ever seen.” 

“It -  _this_  is not little. This is agony.” Holmes looked up into the eyes of his once-upon-a-time lover, “But for you, and only you, I will try.”

“You will do more than try. You  _will_.” 

Watson hugged him to his chest. He was terrified, if he was truthful. He had seen great men who had fought with him in war kill themselves from depression. He had seen the way their eyes lost all spark, the way nothing meant anything anymore. Workings of the mind was not his area, but, for Holmes, he would do anything to stop him from suicide. 

“Let’s get you into bed, sleep may help.”

“I don't use the bed anymore.”

Watson frowned.

“What, why not?”

“I sleep in your chair.”

“Why in God's name would you do that? You'll give yourself a bad back!”

“It smells of you. A bad back is a small price to pay.”


	7. 7

The lack of fresh air and motivation had made Holmes somewhat lazy. He spent his time curled in a ball upon Watson's chair, barely moving, just staring into the fire. It would appear that his depression had become more concentrated. 

Watson watched, mostly from afar as he was much too busy with his own work. But he saw how lifeless the man had become, he read the scribbles on his desk and he pinpointed the exact way the man hugged his knees.

 **You will never burn. You don't know what it's like to burn; ou are much too dead.**

  
He was thinking too much.

**  
“Holmes!”

Watson pulled the blanket from the man's grasp.

“What?” Came the answer, not so much as even one eye open, “Leave me in peace if you have nothing interesting to say.”

“You need to get out of this room. We're taking a walk,” Watson took hold of Holmes' arm, “Come now, up you get.” 

Holmes growled but rose from the chair. He threw on a coat and placed his hat upon his head, then stood waiting by the door.

“Come along then,  _doctor_. Let's take this walk so I may return to my previous position of ignorance.”

“Mrs Hudson will have supper prepared for when we return.” Watson said as they stepped into the night air.

“I am not overly hungry. I doubt I will feel any better after this walk.”

“You will eat, Holmes.”

They continued in silence to one of London's many public gardens. The area was deserted, possibly because of the time of day, and was only lit by gas lamps. It was eerie and silent, bar the squeaks of crows here and there and it was just the environment Holmes enjoyed. His mind may be busy with other dark thoughts, but he was able to deduce without fail why Watson had brought him here, of all places. Mentally, he prepared himself for what he was about to endure.

“How are -”

“Don't avoid the true meaning of this walk. Go on, give me your worst.”

Watson raised an eyebrow,”What meaning? I simply want to talk.”

“So talk, don't ask questions you know the answers to. Tell me I'm being a fool so I can go home and be a fool in front of the fire.”

“Holmes, I cannot watch you stare into those blasted flames any more. There is a case waiting for you in Scotland Yard, you will take it and successfully solve it. If you do not shake this sadness off, it will remain with you until you wither to nothing.” Watson sighed, “I brought you out here for fresh air and exercise. It was not for a lecture.”

“Sadness? That's what this is? A little dark cloud of sadness.” Holmes chuckled and bowed his head, “This is not sadness!”

They stopped by the edge of the garden lake, no doubt scaring the sleeping ducks. Watson sat upon a bench and encouraged his friend to do the same, but the man stood firm.

“Sit.” The doctor tried again.

“I am happy where I am, thank you.”

“Must you always be stubborn?”

“This is not a simple sadness!” Holmes growled.

“Holmes - “

“No! You yourself have called this a depression.  _That_ is much deeper than a sadness. Sad is what I am after a failed case or if one of my experiments doesn’t go to plan.  _Depressed_  is what I am now. Hopeless, empty, a block of agony pushing against my chest, crushing my lungs and heart. Need I continue or are you still convinced that my  _sadness_  will pass if I simply 'will' it away?” The detective stopped to light his pipe and take in the expression upon his dear doctor's face, “As for your case, I'll take it. I will solve it and then I shall go back to my 'sadness'.”

Watson rose from where he sat and stood nose to nose with Holmes. He took hold of his upper arms.

“I am trying to help! I am trying despite your reluctance to pull yourself from this state.”

“I cannot pull myself from this, John!” Holmes yelled.

“You don't want to! You like the attention I'm giving you. But I cannot mother you forever Holmes and what we had is gone. It is dead. You ruined it!”

Blinded by rage, Holmes hit him hard across the jaw. Watson stumbled back, doubled over and hands cupped to his face.

“I ruined nothing!” Holmes cried.

“You are a cold hearted swine! I have told you once, and I will tell you until you listen; your drugs meant more to you than I ever did!”

Watson kicked Holmes hard in the stomach. The man reciprocated with another blow to Watson’s face and a sharp boot to his diaphragm. The doctor knelt upon the ground, holding his waist and spitting blood onto the gravel.

“Holmes, p-please calm down.”

“You kicked me!”

“You assaulted me. I was not about to sit down and allow you to do so! Must you solve everything with violence?”

Holmes lifted him up by the lapel of his jacket.

“ This is not helping, Holmes!”

“Damn what is helping!” The detective threw Watson onto his back and trapped his left arm beneath his boot.

“S-Sherlock-”

Holmes smashed his fist against Watson's nose and again at his forehead. He ground his boot against Watson's shoulder blade, the man cried out and begged for his mercy. 

“Y-you have to cease this. Please? Sher-”

The detective stared down at his companion. His face was blooded and dirty with gravel, his nose was clearly broken and his left eye bruised. Holmes swallowed another wave of anger. Watson coughed and spat blood from his mouth.

“W-what have I done?” Holmes' voice shook with tears, “Oh, Watson my dear fellow, I - I am so sorry.”

The doctor was already struggling to his feet, but Holmes wrapped both arms around his frame. He lifted Watson to his feet and supported his weight.

“I have no energy left to be angry at you, Holmes.”


	8. 8

Watson was limping more so than when the walk began, even with the added help of Holmes. He winched each time he placed his foot to the ground and his grip tightened on the detective's shoulder. It was just as they reached the outskirts of the gardens that Holmes decided to carefully hoist the man into his arms.   
“Holmes! Put me down!” Watson yelped, holding on firmly to Holmes' shoulders, “Holmes!” 

“Hush now, Watson, you'll wake the homeless.” 

The doctor continued his protests, no matter how fruitless the outcome were to be. Holmes marched onwards to 221B Baker Street , ignoring the objections for his companion , and resisted breaking breath to him until they reached the door way.

He carried him over the threshold and straight to the living area. 

“Oh my goodness,” Mrs Hudson placed a hand to her mouth, “What in God's name happened?”

“It's nothing, Mrs Hudson.” Watson answered as he sat upon the couch. 

“Indeed. Please just bring the doctor some tea.” 

Reluctantly, she left. Holmes retrieved a roll of bandages, some damp cloths and mild disinfectant solution from Watson's rooms. He gently began to rub at the doctors scuffed cheeks.

“Holmes, I am quite capable of doing this myself.”

“No you are not, you can barely stand.”

“You lifted me without asking.”

“You were limping. Hold still.”

“I  _always_  limp. Give me that cloth!” 

Watson snatched it from Holmes' hands and gently pressed it to his left eye. 

“I can take care of this. Go to your bed.” 

“I cannot let you do this yourself. I inflicted this -”

“And you will allow me to fix it.” Watson barked.

Holmes lowered his head and moved to the furthest end of the couch. He watched as the doctor hissed and swore when the disinfectant touched his skin. The scratches and bruising left behind after the blood was washed away made Holmes sick to his stomach. 

The fact that the detective looked in better shape than the doctor, roused suspicion in the landlady and Holmes could clearly see her suspicions. 

“Who did this to you, doctor?” Holmes heard her whisper, her eyes constantly on him.

“A back ally drunk, my dear. Not a worry.” 

Holmes began to ask why on earth Watson had not told her the truth when the doctor gave him a stern look.

“I think you should go to bed, Holmes. Try to sleep. We have a case in the morning.” 

Hesitantly, the detective nodded. He lifted his hat from the floor, bid the doctor a good night and strode to his rooms. There he sat on the edge of the bed. He could feel the guilt clogging his arteries, the weight on his chest having gained at least six ounces. He kept hearing Watson's cries as he hit him over and over. He could feel the sticky texture of the blood on his knuckles and the crack of his bones beneath his fist. It was the fact that he saw himself in Watson, that made him stop. He had become a wild beast wallowing in its own self pity. 

He bit back a whine and thrust his fingers through his hair. It was times like these Holmes needed the drugs. The cravings shook his entire body from head to toe and his hands scratched violently at the skin on his arms. The detective was desperate for any emotion other than guilt. 

**

From the moment Holmes was given the case, he took to his room. He could be heard pacing at all hours of the night, muttering incoherently to himself. The week continued as normal for Watson, who ate breakfast in the morning, attended work and came home to his nightly routine. However, not once did he set eyes on Holmes. They had barely spoken at all since that evening in the park; in fact, not a breath was uttered about it. 

It wasn't until the second week into the case that Watson dared to set foot into the detective's parlour. He was sat in front of the fire, pages surrounding him, gun at his belt and the remainder of the room in chaos. 

“Holmes.” Watson whispered.

The man jumped and turned to face his intruder. The skin beneath his eyes was an unhealthy mixture of black and yellow and the sclera were bloodshot. He looked worn, strung out on lack of sleep and nutrition. Watson bit back a sigh. 

“Ah, my dear Watson. Your face is looking better. Now, this case -”

“Holmes, when did you last eat?”

“Just this morning.”

“No, you didn't.”

“No. You are correct of course. Weeks ago is my answer.” 

Holmes turned back to his work and began, once again, ruffling through the pages. Watson sat upon his seat by the fire. Still, the detective muttered and sorted and combed his fingers through his tussled hair, all as if the doctor was not watching. 

“You smell.”Watson commented.

“Thank you.” 

Watson pinched at the bridge of his nose. 

“You need to bathe. And eat.” 

“Not until I have cracked it. Then I shall do both. And sleep.”

“You have not slept?”

“Of course not. Sleep wastes my precious time; horrible hours of hallucination and fantasy. I do not need them messing with my system.” 

“Right.” Watson sighed. 

He continued to watch as Holmes fussed over the case before him. The man's movements had quickened tenfold from his depressive state just weeks ago. His hands sorted, combed through his hair, tapped at his mouth, scratched at his skin; it's as if they couldn't stop.

“It's been two weeks -”

“Oh my gracious, has it?!” Holmes gazed up at him with wide eyes, “This is indeed more challenging than I expected.”

Watson had not words. This behaviour was manic and beyond anything he had ever expected from the detective. It was not long ago that Holmes would have had the case closed within three days of receiving it. It was both strange and terrifying to see him take so long. And yet, it seemed, that Holmes was moving as fast as he could. 

“Ah ha!” He cried, jumping to his feet and doing a sort of horrid jig, “I have got it, dear Watson. I have cracked it.” He threw off his dressing gown and replaced it with his jacket, “Come now, we must go straight to Scotland yard. We haven't much time.” 

“Holmes that jacket is much too big. You should --”

“We haven't got all day,” Holmes was now fixing a scarf around his neck, “There is to be a murder!”

“When?” 

“Tonight!”


	9. 9

  
“It was quite simple, “ Holmes exclaimed to both Lestrade and Watson, “ Five women, all murdered in the same horrendous manor, all of upper class and in the same district of the city. That narrows it down. However, what placed the icing upon the cake was this; they are all of five foot and seven inches, all have blonde curls and are all aged between twenty and twenty six.”

“Yes but Holmes, there are at least three more women of that description in that district.” Lestrade answered.

“Ah but you see, there is more.” Holmes snatched Watson's cane from him and began swinging it in circles as he paced, “One of those women is a scullery maid; our killer isn't after the lower classes. You say no possessions were taken from the bodies? I say there was. Money.” He reached for Lestrade's bowler cap but his hand was slapped away, “That leaves Madam Smithe and Madam Winchester. However, Madam Smithe is in fact twenty seven and six months.”

He sat upon a stool, placed the cane between his legs and leaned forward. His grin was manic with triumph. 

“Gentlemen, our next victim is without our sights. Madam Winchester happens to be attending the theatre tonight, by her lonesome. Her husband is off pursuing his affair with the governess, no doubt.”

“How in bleedin' hell do you know that.” Lestrade spat, “You could be makin' this up for all we know.”

“Have I made it up before, Lestrade? Why should now be any different? I happen to know due to my massive intellect and observation skills. I also happen to have contacts in that area.” 

“It's no secret that you've gone barmey, Holmes. I'm takin' a big risk lettin' you in on this.” 

Watson cleared his throat.

“Inspector, Holmes is perfectly capable of this job. His condition is much better now, it was just a severe case of the flu.” 

Holmes grinned up at Lestrade, “I have always been barmey, old boy.” 

The inspector growled in frustration and pinched at the bridge of his nose. 

“What time tonight?” 

**

There was a flaw that Holmes had not seen coming. A small loophole in the plan that had eventually lead to the untimely death of another young woman. 

Watson had the blanket wrapped around Holmes' small shoulders just moments after the body was carried away. The detective was staring at the spot where the young woman had lay, his mind whirring, deciphering the fact from the fiction and how it had all gone wrong. Watson was whispering, pulling him up by the elbow and he obeyed because what else could he do? 

Holmes felt weak at the knees. Lestrade was speaking but the sound was muffled by the ringing in his ears. He was being tugged out into the darkness of the street, a carriage was flagged and he was shoved inside. 

There, Watson fussed over him. His speech was coming in frantic waves, the vibrations jolting through Holmes like some sort of shock. 

“Come on, old cock, breathe!” 

Holmes was not aware that his heart had stopped. Or perhaps he was not breathing quite enough. 

“Sherlock.” Watson tapped the side of his face lightly, “Focus.” 

“I-I am here, Watson.” 

“You need to lift your head up and take deep breaths. Your heart rates is much too slow.”

Holmes felt his head being lifted, his eyes met Watson's and he could feel the doctor's hand grasping his. 

“It's alright, Holmes. You are alive.”

“Since when did being alive make everything  _alright_?” 

Watson studied the detectives eyes for any sign of his old friend, but he found none. They were empty, void of all emotion but pain and anger. The irises were pale in comparison to what they once were and, in all truth, he looked as if he might cry. Watson was at a loss for words. 

“Sherlock-” Watson started, but he knew there was nothing he could say to counter that vacancy within Holmes. 

He gently wrapped his arms around the detective's frame and rested one hand in his scruffy bonce. They sat in silence. Holmes' did not react to his ally's embrace, nor did he so much as blink when the carriage made an abrupt halt at 221B. He merely sat impossibly still with his eyes focused on the seat opposite and his arms crossed neatly on his lap. 

Carefully, Watson helped Holmes from the carriage. He was still unsteady on his feet but made no attempt to seek Watson as a crutch. 

“This case was certainly not one of my better ideas.” Watson muttered once in the safety of Holmes' chamber. 

“Well now we have a firm grasp on the obvious.” Holmes answered.

Ignoring Holmes' ill-mannered response, Watson began checking his vitals. He pinched at his wrists and neck for a pulse and checked the flesh beneath his eyes for discolouration. To Holmes it was all a blur of muffled speech and unnecessary touching. 

“Must you?” He mumbled.

“Must I check that you are remotely unharmed? Yes, of course!” Watson snapped, “If you are suffering from shock do you expect me to just let you be? Because I won't.”

“I am perfectly fine.” Holmes threw his jacket to the floor and sat upon one of the arm chairs. 

“Physically, yes. But your mental state is deteriorating.” 

“And how might you know that, Watson? Enlighten me.” 

The doctor sighed. He placed both jackets, his and Holmes', upon the back of the other armchair before sitting. Once again, Holmes was staring vacantly at the fire. He had been pushed right back to where he had began and it was only a matter of time before his cravings picked up. 

“It wasn't your fault, you know.” Watson whispered. 

“Hmm.” 

“I'm telling you the truth, old boy. You can't save everyone. We caught the fiend behind it all, concentrate on that.” 

“But one more innocent died. We had the means to prevent it and we didn't - ” Holmes pinched at the bridge of his nose,” - forget it, Watson. I would like to be left alone now.” 

“I will not leave you to brood along side the fire, you must pick yourself up and move on. I will not allow you to spiral any further - ” Watson's train of thought was broken by the tapping of Holmes' fingers along side the arm of the chair, “ And you're craving again.”

“Again, enlighten me with how you have come to know this.” 

“You're tapping your fingers in an irritated fashion. You're chewing on your lip, in fact it's bleeding -”

“I could just be irritated by your presence even after I asked you to leave.” 

“This case has knocked you back quite a bit, it doesn't take a doctor to see that. If I were to leave you now there would be nothing to stop you going onto the streets and finding your precious opium, or cocaine, or any drug for that matter. In fact you -” He was abruptly interrupted by the gentle touch of Holmes' lips against his. He said rigidly still. 

Eventually Holmes pulled away and instead wrapped his arms tightly around the doctor. He began to sob, his words hoarse and muffled by tears and his head buried in Watson's shoulder. 

“I-I'm so sorry.” Holmes whined.

“It's quite alright, old cock.” Watson answered gently rubbing at his back, “I'm here. It's all alright.” 

“I failed, Watson. That young woman is dead because I failed to see the flaw in our plan. I would have this all sorted weeks ago if I were my old self -”

“You would still be on the drugs, I would not be here. You may even be dead. We caught the crook and , as I said before , it is not your job to save everyone.” 

“Of course not. How could any one rely on me to save them when I can not even save myself.” He pulled Watson closer and nuzzled at his neck. Watson could feel the sobs shaking his entire body, “ I see no point to living if I have lost my ability to think.” 

Watson wrapped both arms around the detective. 

“There is always a reason to live, Holmes, a-and right now, in this moment, you are mine.” 

Holmes softly kissed Watson neck and whispered something about loving him, he nipped a line along his jaw and gently pressed their lips together. When Watson didn't pull away he gently bit at his bottom lip, subtly asking for more. The doctor pulled Holmes on to his lap. He rested his hands on the man's lower back and parted his lips so their tongues touched. Holmes moaned.

“Old cock, we shouldn't do this.” Watson murmured between kisses.

“That is  _certainly_   _not_  what your hands and mouth are telling me.” Holmes answered, “Why do you say such a thing.”

The detective dipped his head to kiss at Watson's collar bone.

“Y-you are fragile. I don't want to take advantage.” 

“Nonsense.” 

“I'm serious Holmes! I don't want to hurt you.” 

The detective bit down hard on Watson's skin, earning himself a deep growl. 

“I  _need_  you to help me feel human.” 

Holmes ground his hips against Watson. His hand moved to undo the buttons of his waist coat and shirt while the doctor moved his hands to Holmes' backside. Gently Watson kissed at Holmes' neck, then his jaw. 

“You are human,” he said breathlessly, “ You have never been more human to me.” 

“Bed. Please, Watson.” 

Holmes wrapped his legs around Watson’s waist and the good doctor carried him to the bed. He laid him upon the sheets, his hands entangled with his and they kissed. It was urgent yet sweet and unrushed. He could taste Holmes' tears and it made his heart melt slightly in his chest. He moved his hands to unbutton the detective's shirt.

“I love you.” Holmes brushed his fingers through Watson's hair, “I may never stop saying it and I never wish to.” 

Watson gazed up into Holmes' hazel eyes, still raw from crying and threatening more tears. He felt his defences falling , all those months spent building walls and they were falling to ruin. But he couldn't reply, not yet. 

He ripped Holmes' shirt from his body and then his own. Furiously he began to kiss at the detective's chest, he nipped and sucked and scratched at the skin. Above him Holmes' moaned and begged. 

“You are so radiant, ” He commented, “ just much to thin.” 

“J-just please kiss me, oh Christ Watson, kiss me.” 

And he did. He kissed him again and again, his tongue exploring every inch of Holmes' mouth and vice versa. His hands held his buttocks firmly while Holmes' was hovering above his waistband. 

This was not the sexual energy they were used to. It wasn't rough and bare and ready, it was slow and sweet; almost sad. Like a swan song. 

Watson rubbed himself against Holmes' leg, the friction sending threads of lightening to his cock. In his moment of weakness he was flipped to lay upon the bed, above him Holmes worked at the buckle of his belt. Once unfastened he slid the trousers from Watson’s' legs, ducked to untie his shoes and threw them to the other side of the bed. His own soon followed. 

Once entirely naked, Holmes laid himself down upon Watson's body. Both shivered at the touch. He kissed the doctor, sliding his tongue in and out as if he were gently fucking his lips. As the kissed deepened, he slid a finger inside of him. Watson groaned loudly and Holmes drank in the sound, twisting his finger further inside him. 

“You sound wonderful.” Holmes muttered. 

Watson groaned as another finger was added. He dragged his nails along Holmes' back and brought his legs up to wrap around the detective's waist.

“Sherlock - “ Watson whispered with surprising dexterity for someone with two fingers inside him, stretching him and brushing his prostate , “Please, do get on with it.” 

“If you are sure.” 

Holmes began to kiss along Watson's jaw line and as he did, carefully slid into him. Watson tensed himself, after all if had been a few months. 

“Relax, I won't hurt you.” Holmes whispered into his ear. 

Watson nodded and the detective pushed further until he was entirely buried within the doctor. Slowly he began to thrust his hips. Watson moaned, his hands gripping onto the sheets. Holmes continued to kiss along his jaw, along his neck and he occasionally nipped and sucked at the man's nipples. 

He took hold of Watson's neglected cock and stroked it in time with his own rhythm. Soon enough, Watson was a squirming mess below him. 

“Sherlock,  _christ ,_  I'm -” 

Watson moaned loudly and released his seed over his stomach. Holmes' continued to thrust, the image of Watson arching his back and tilting his head back as he came burned into his skull. Shortly, in three short movements, Holmes' gave into the heat in his belly. He gripped the doctor's hips for support and cried out his Christian name. 

Once spent, he collapsed beside his friend. He was breathless and, for the first time in weeks, exhausted.


	10. 10

It was quite true that the previous evening's activity had, in fact, happened. It made no difference how many times Watson told him self it hadn't. He was still tangled within the arms of Holmes and the evidence was spread across their skin and the ill-fated sheets. 

Neither of the men had slept but it made good to pretend. Holmes had lay with his arm draped around Watson's shoulders and Watson had his head nestled on the detective's chest. But no matter how wonderful the sensation was Watson couldn't sake his feeling of dread. 

Holmes stroked at his hair, absent-mindedly staring at the wall and no doubt deducing the situation. But he was relaxed, his whole body falling against Watson's in an all to familiar way and it was the closest thing to bliss the detective had experienced since the man had left. 

He deserves something after all of this, just a little of something. 

“I need to use the lavatory.” Watson whispered struggling from the man's grasp. 

He ignored the protests as he lifted a shirt, not caring whether it belonged to him or Holmes, and ducked into the small en- suite. Once the door was closed he slid against it and allowed every little thought to crowd him. What had happened shouldn't have, that was clear, but he hadn't exactly stopped it and Holmes certainly wouldn't have. The man was in distress and sex had been away to feel close to someone; especially if it was sex with the man he still loved. 

Watson ran his fingers through his hair and squeezed his eyes shut. He had taken advantage despite Holmes making him perfectly clear that it was okay. Quite frankly, it was not okay. 

There was a steady knock on the door. Watson promptly bounced to his feet, stood before the mirror with a wash cloth and proceeded to wipe away the evidence of last night. 

“Yes?” 

Holmes poked his head around the door.

“Good morning, my love, would you care for breakfast?” The man grinned.

“No thank you, Holmes. You may eat with out me.” Watson answered.

“Oh come now,” Holmes strode into the bathroom, as naked as the day he was born, “Of course you'll eat with me.”

Watson blushed, “No, I assure you that I am fine,” he watched as Holmes leisurely draped himself against the door frame, “ You should get dressed before Mrs Hudson finds you flaunting yourself around like that.” 

The detective smirked and suggestively ran a hand down his torso. It stopped just before his half hard cock. No matter how much Watson tried, he couldn't pry his eyes away. 

“Holmes, must you?” he sighed.

“You clearly want it.” 

Watson acknowledged his hardening member for just a moment before cursing beneath his breath. 

“My bodies natural reaction is nothing to go by.” 

“Oh, so you're say that last night's fornication was a mistake?” Holmes frowned.

“Yes. I am.” 

The detective fell silent. He stared at Watson, doe eyed and crestfallen. Watson sighed and pinched at the bridge of his nose; could he say nothing right? 

“Holmes I - “

“No, it's quite alright mother hen. I understand.” 

Holmes quickly retreated back into the bedroom and covered himself in his ratty dressing gown. Watson, now wearing only a shirt which clearly belonged to the detective, stood in the door way of the lavatory. He was torn between apologizing to the man or breaking his heart entirely and admitting that last night meant nothing to him. However, the latter wouldn't entirely be true. 

“If that's how it is, perhaps you should leave.” Holmes stood with his back to the doctor, hands in pockets and head bowed,still Watson could tell he was close to weeping. 

“It was not meant to come out like that, old cock, I assure you. I didn't mean -”  
“You've made yourself clear. Now, please, leave.” he spoke as if the very words left a bad taste in his mouth. 

“If that's what you want.”

“I don't have a choice.” 

Watson reluctantly lifted the remainder of his clothing and shuffled from the room. He made a quick dash to his own quarters as to avoid an embarrassing encounter with his landlady. The room felt cold and much too big. His bed was still covered in a variety of case notes from their previous case and amongst them were some of Holmes own musings. Watson was tired, his head was throbbing and every limp in his body ached. He threw the garments upon a chair, pushed the papers carelessly onto the floor and decided the best plan of action was no plan. 

**

“I know you're upset.” 

Watson almost jumped from his bed. The presence was unexpected, especially in a darkened room. The doctor was usually a very light sleeper, which had been a delight in Afghanistan where if you didn't move fast you were dead, but it was a curse here in busy London. However, Sherlock Holmes was a lighter step than most. 

“H-holmes?” Watson asked, trying to focus on the outline of the man sitting next to him upon the bed, “Good God man, you can't just barge in here and -”

“I can leave.” 

“No.” Watson sat up, “No, don't. Please stay.”

Holmes rested his forehead on his knees. 

“I haven't stopped thinking.” 

“About what?”

“You regret having sex with me last night. You regret everything that happened between us. You feel as if you have taken advantage but you're not quite sure of your own feelings towards me.”

“I never fail to be amazed by your deductions, old cock.” Watson sighed. He reached forward for the man's hand but was gently pushed away, “I'm sorry Holmes. I truly am.”

“And I am sorry to you also.”

“You have changed me in the last few weeks. I can not tell if I love you still as just a friend or if I am in love with you. It doesn't feel like it did before.” 

“How so?”

“It feels slightly more mournful.” 

Holmes looked at me but through the darkness his expression was hidden. The silence was heartbreaking in itself, never before had it felt so uneasy.   
“I should of anticipated this. In my fragile state I had someone convinced myself that you would come back to me eventually. For that I am sorry.” Holmes whispered. It was obvious break in his voice that made Watson pull him into a vice like hug, “I do apologize again, my old friend, for my raw emotion.” 

“You will do no such thing. Please, go on. I'm here to listen.”

Watson felt Holmes relax against his body and he cursed himself; once again he was taking advantage of the delicate situation. 

“What is this? What are doing?” Holmes asked, “You don't want me, you don't love me like your used to and yet, here you are, holding me like some sort of damsel in distress.”

“I can barely tell one feeling from the next, thanks to you. I am all a mess.” 

“That's just one more thing I have to apologize for. I not only have confused your mind, but I have ruined mine. If only I had seen the flaw -”

“We discussed this. It was a mistake anyone could have made.”

“I'm not anyone. I am Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. I am the one the police go to when our of their depth, I am the relied upon to solve the most cunning of cases. With out that I am nothing.” He buried his head into the fabric of Watson's nightshirt, “ I can not just be another man. And last night you tried to take me away from that fact, and you were successful. With you I feel alive. With you I am never bored. The hardest of things in life suddenly become simple. But it can not be and why should it? After all I was a complete fool and chased away the one thing I ever would need.” 

Watson rested his cheek atop of Holmes head and slowly rubbed circles into his back. The man was shaking with cold, after all the starvation had led to massive drop in muscle and body fat, his knees were drawn up against Watson's stomach and his arms were protectively clutched to his own chest. 

There was nothing the doctor could say to retaliate. He had promised once to try and love the detective again and it wouldn't do to create more false hope. 

“Don't do anything rash, old cock.” Watson kissed his forehead, “No matter what you think, London needs you.” 

“I fear I will never find my way out of this, Watson. Despite what you think, I can no wish this depression away. I have tried.” 

“I know. I should never have suggested such a thing. But, please know, that I am here to help you from it.”

“I don't understand you any more, my dear. This whole situation is confusing as hell but, I trust you entirely. I am certain of that if nothing else.”


	11. 11

Holmes was never one to dwell on closed cases. Yes, he revised and studied his tactics but nine times out of ten, he was satisfied. Until now. 

It was inevitable that Holmes would fall back into that downward spiral. The man felt that his mind was rotting; his mind was his famous quirk and, he felt, his only quirk. Watson, of course, hadn't helped matters by sleeping with him and he felt it only right to help prevent further damage. 

Holmes had been in bed for approximately 71 hours. Whether he had actually slept or not, Watson didn't know, but he was becoming more and more concerned about the man's health as the minutes ticked on. It was as if all the progress he had made meant nothing. He was right back where he had began, minus the withdrawals. 

“Holmes!” Watson said as he pulled the quilt from the detective’s body, “You need a bath, you smell horrid.” 

“Just leave me to rot.” Holmes answered.

“Oh, don't be so melodramatic!” 

When Holmes refused to move so much as a finger, Watson tucked one arm under his knees and the other around his shoulders and hoisted him into the air. The detective squeaked and took hold of the doctor's shirt front. 

“You look ghastly.”

“So would you if I had just pried you from your warm bed.” 

Watson ignored the snide remark and gently placed the man upon the floor of the lavatory. He unbuttoned his nightshirt and discarded his trunks.

“I am not a child!” Holmes bitched.

“Then stop acting like one.” Watson sighed, “Just get into the tub.” 

Holmes did as he was told. The water was boiling and the bath salts smelt mildly of lavender; Holmes hated lavender. Watson rolled the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows and produced a dampened wash cloth. 

“Sit back.”

He began to rub the cloth along Holmes' skin, the man didn't so much as make a snappy remark, he just sat still and allowed Watson to clean him. 

“Are you alright, old cock? Is this okay?”

“Fine. Yes.” 

Watson sighed, “Okay, well, hold your breath.”

A surprised yelp was all Holmes could manage as Watson ducked a bowl of hot water over his head. He began to scrub at the detective's hair, working out the tangles with his fingers and washing around the back of his neck. 

“Your hair is in desperate need of a trim, old boy.” Watson mused.

“Humph.”

Holmes wasn't overly interested in anything the doctor had to say. At one point, the mere thought of Watson washing him would have been arousing, but it didn't matter now; nothing did.

Once he was clean and dry, Holmes lounged on his ratty armchair, wearing no more than his night shirt and trunks. He retreated back to his usual routine of watching the embers of the fire. Watson sat at the writing desk, intending to both update his journals and keep an eye on his friend. 

Sometime later, when the moon had come up, Holmes cleared his throat.

“It will pass, won't it?” He whispered.

“Yes, Holmes.”

“And you'll be here? In friendship?” 

“Yes. Always.” 

“Good.”

“You spent three hours musing that?”

Holmes remained silent for just a fraction longer than he should have, choosing each word with due care and attention. 

“Yes. Amongst other, less important, things.” 

“And are you pleased with your conclusion of such matters?”

“Yes,” Holmes chuckled, “Very.” 

***  
The coming days brought a more active Holmes. He stopped spending his hours in bed and instead was up and playing his violin. He still ate precious little but enough to please the doctor.

Then there was a smile; That smile. It made a grand reappearance one morning, over breakfast. If Watson were honest, it was one of the reasons he had fallen in love with the detective. From what the doctor could tell, it was perfectly genuine, but then Holmes always had been the master of disguise. 

Watson and he had begun taking short walks in and around the grand gardens of London. They attended the theatre to watch one of Holmes' most favoured musicians and then ate dinner at The Royale. 

Holmes began talking about the goings on in London as if he were back to knowing everything about everyone. He became more and more interested in the building of the Tower Bridge and Watson often accompanied him to view the progress. It was just another of Holmes’ little obsessions and, to the doctor, it was a good sign. 

In fact, Holmes' behaviour had pleased Watson so much that he didn't complain about his persisting insomnia, nor did he notice the hours he spent staring into the fire. It seemed things had picked up and, although not all his dark moods had dwindled, Watson wasn't fazed; no one expected a miracle recovery. 

The doctor was convinced that his depression had passed and that the arrogant, 'holier-than-thou' detective had returned to him. Holmes' knew otherwise.


	12. 12

_**“The way sadness works is one of the strangest riddles of the world.” Lemony Snicket.** _

_"If my calculations are correct, my body will hit the water at between 75 and 80 miles per hour. My internal organs will continue to shift due to the physics of inertia. They will tear loose due to the impact and my bones will shatter due to sheer pressure.”_

Atop of Tower Bridge was a cold place to be and Holmes was hardly dressed appropriately. Then again, did it matter? It would not be cold where he was going and, if it were, it would only be for a moment. 

 _“Everyone assumes jumping is a pleasant and easy way to take one’s life; it isn't isn reality. If you know the science behind it you'll find that it's as gruesome as any murder. Hanging would be a better way to go, however I'd rather spare Watson the mental images.”_

He had stood on the edge of the scaffolding for almost forty five minutes. Why he was stalling, Holmes couldn't tell. Everything was planned, what was there to think about? Everything apparently. 

 _"Jump, old cock, just jump!”_

But he didn't. He stood motionless squinting down at the dark water and concentrated on the feel and sound of the night breeze. He concentrated on anything but his own thoughts. Alas, the Lord be damned, they still squeezed through. 

**  
The envelope was sitting neatly upon Holmes' otherwise chaotic desk. It was an unusual site for nine o'clock in the evening; he had been so accustomed to Holmes never leaving the house at night that it seemed very strange that he was not there. 

Dread began to settle in the pit of the doctor’s stomach. The script upon the front was not Holmes' usual scrawl. John Watson was written in careful, precise letters and the wax seal upon the back was in a perfectly round circle. Never before had Watson known Holmes to be so concerned with the appearance of a letter or by his handwriting. It was, quite frankly, rather troubling. 

Watson hooked the letter opener beneath the surface of the envelope and drew it across. Inside was a single piece of paper. 

 _John Watson  
My dearest John. I am afraid I am at a loss for words so please excuse the haste of this letter._

 _I love you. I have loved you since the moment we met at St Bartholomew’s Hospital and I will continue to love you no matter where I may be. Please remember that._

 _You enabled a blind man to see the light and selfishly I poisoned that. For this and some many other things I am truly very sorry. I have been an arrogant and egocentric man, albeit selfish and ignorant. Everything that has made me so brilliant has, inevitably, brought my own self destruction and breakdown_

 _I fear I may have strayed from the point of this letter somewhat._

 _Beneath the files upon my desk are two letters. In one, you will find my last month’s rent money, please give it to nanny. The rose tinted envelope is for you. It contains the remainder of my savings. Take it and use it for yourself but please, John, make me proud. Find peace and happiness and whatever else mankind seeks for a good life. You deserve happiness after my ill presence for so long.  
Finally, by my bed there is a satchel and in it you will find various pieces of cuff links and jewellery. Do with them what you will, all except for the gold ring which is to go to my dear brother._

 _This is becoming more of a will than a letter; and so it should be._

 _I can no longer bare the agony pushing down upon my chest. Its iron grip has squeezed my heart long enough and I can not bare it any more. Each day I wake is a struggle, each time I open my eyes, I wish to cry. Every breath I take leaves a bitter taste in my mouth and a burning in my throat. You can not possibly understand this and I hope you never do. I would not wish this on Moriarty himself, if he were still with us.  
I conclude this letter how I opened it. I love you, I will in death as I always have in life. And when you are ready (in your old age, of course) I shall be waiting to greet you and hold you once again. _

 _All my love and deepest regret,  
Sherlock Holmes. _

Watson felt his knees give way. His entire body was shaking and, suddenly, he couldn't see for tears. It occurred to him that he couldn't live without the detective, he couldn't awake each day and him not be there. He needed to save, stop him and hold him; he needed to put Holmes back together for good. 

Watson tore through the desk, upturning papers and journals, hoping that he would somehow get a clue of the man's fate. There was nothing of use at all, only bits and pieces of mindless babble; the man had written nothing since the days before the case. 

And then it hit him with such force he nearly toppled over. The one area of London Holmes had shown most interest in during the last few weeks, the  _one_ structure he had stood and admired for hours; Tower Bridge. 

**

The pounding of his heart was all Watson knew as he bounded through the streets of London. There had been no time to stand and whistle for a cab, there had barely been time to give Mrs Hudson orders to telegram Lestrade. 

The doctor had left without so much as his jacket but he didn't feel the cold. All he felt was the dread building in his blood and the paralysing fear of losing the detective;  _His_  detective.

As he ran, his train of thought jumped from one conclusion to the next. The reality of the situation was so grim that he couldn't bear to think of it. It was easier to fool himself into a few more minutes of fantasy than give into logic. 

Watson's knees buckled beneath him and he toppled forward hitting his head upon the cobbles. He felt the touch of a street urchin but her voice was nothing but a hum in his ears. She helped him to his feet and he issued a thank you before continuing onward. He was almost certain that his head was bleeding and that his ankle was sprained but he couldn't stop, if he did he might never forgive himself.

The doctor felt his chest tighten at the sight of the towering structure. He could see nothing atop of it but the usual equipment. The fear that had threatened to consume him rose to the surface. He bounded up the steps of the bridge's scaffolding in sheer panic. 

"Holmes!?” he cried, “Holmes!?” 

He fell upon the boards at the highest point of the tower, one hand gripping his chest and the other around his ankle. There, on the edge of the scaffolding, sat Holmes. The detective’s soft sobs shook his entire body and Watson could feel nothing but relief. 

"Holmes, please come away from there.” Watson begged.

"I-I cannot do it, mother hen. I have planned and researched and prepared for this and yet I can not jump.” the man's voice was hoarse from crying. 

"Please come here, Sherlock. I can't move much with this damn leg.” Watson whispered. 

"J-just leave -”

"No. No I will not leave. I can not leave. I love you, Sherlock Holmes. I always have and I always will. If you do this...I-I will just have to follow you.” 

"You don't love me.”

"I  _do_  love you. I would do anything for you. I may have been scared before but you need me and that is more important than any fear. Please, Sherlock. We were happy before and we can be happy again. You've been so much like your old self lately and it's made me so happy.”

"I didn't even know you were sad.” Holmes wailed, “I couldn't even tell you were hurting. I have lost my mind entirely, Watson and what good am I without it? I am nothing but an ex-drug addict with nothing to offer you.” 

Holmes gently rose to his feet. 

"Holmes, don't you dare. Don't you do this to us; to me.” 

"If I hit the water correctly, I'll die within minutes. If I don't, I may survive or suffer prolonged agony until I drown. If I walk away I may suffer internally for the rest of my natural life.” 

"No. Just come away from there. I promise you that you will not suffer.”

"You can't promise that!”

"I just did.” 

Holmes stood with his toes parallel with the boards of the scaffolding, his eyes fixated on the Thames below and his fists clenched by his sides. For several long moments, not a word passed between the men. Watson was much too afraid to drag himself forward in case Holmes took it as a threat.

Honestly, the doctor didn't know what to do. He had talked to many suicidal men back in his days of war and had even prevented a few from taking their own lives. But when said man was not only your best friend but also your lover, all medical training and logical thinking was lost. 

Holmes let out a frustrated sigh. 

"I'm afraid that living has become much too frightening,” the detective cried, “But dying is a whole different thing. I was so ready, so  _determined_  to die and yet here I stand, more alive than I have ever felt.”

With his eyes squeezed shut, he moved backwards away from the edge and knelt beside Watson.   
The doctor took him into his arms and held him as if he might never hold him again. The detective immediately began to weep and Watson tried, in vain, to smother his own tears. 

"It's alright now. I'm here.” Watson whispered. 

"I'm sorry. So, so sorry.” 

"It's perfectly okay, Old cock. You are here, in my arms and you are alive; that is half the battle.”  
  
"What should I say, what can I say? I'm not another mystery to be solved, I took you for granted, now, I'm loosing you as much as I'm loosing myself. I made a terrible mistake, I took life for granted. I always have been, and always will be irrevocably alone." - Nina Lucine.


End file.
